Behind Bars
by rufeepeach
Summary: Belle is the new Deputy Sheriff, out of the asylum and in a happy relationship with Mr Gold. Then she has to arrest him, and things get heated.


Belle loves her job.

Really, there's nothing about being deputy sheriff that she doesn't love. It's the second-best thing in her life, after her relationship with Mr Gold.

After she was discharged from the asylum, Belle had considered going back to the library. But the library is Isabelle's domain, Izzy's life, and she's Belle, now, a different person. But the idea of so much silence, of all that solitude, was too much to bear: she needed to be around people, doing something that actually mattered, and Emma had provided that opportunity.

Emma's a great boss, and Belle's one of her closest friends in Storybrooke. All Belle wants is to be brave and kind like her: she was so good to give this job to someone so recently out of hospital. And, for the most part, all Belle'd done was answer the phones, and search for the occasional lost dog.

She'd been looking forward to taking her first public menace into custody; she'd expected it to be Leroy, or maybe Ruby on a bender.

She hadn't expected it to be a double-arrest, or to have to call for backup. She _really_ hadn't expected the perpetrators to be her boyfriend and her high school crush.

Because of a fight… in front of Granny's… about _her_.

She slumps back against the wall, out of sight of the two prisoners, and pinches the bridge of her nose, a tension headache fast approaching.

She hears the Sheriff re-enter the room, and address George. "Okay, Mr Gastbury, you're free to go."

He passes Belle in the hallway, and she just scowls at him. He doesn't appear to understand, but his face is just as impassive and gormless –_ god, how could she have ever interpreted that as deep and thoughtful?_ - as ever, so it's hard to tell.

"I'll just be on my merry way then, too, Sheriff." Belle hears Gold, his tone confident and cool, and she has to smile.

"In your dreams." Emma scoffs, and leaves. Because she doesn't want to be here for this: she's a smart woman and she knows what comes next. Belle will have to go inside, and talk to her boyfriend of six months about What Just Happened, and that's not going to be pretty.

"He's all yours." She smirks at Belle as she passes, "Try to leave some of him alive to pay his fine."

"I'm making no promises," Belle murmurs, and Emma grins at her.

"Have fun."

Belle smiles at Emma's retreating back, and rounds the corner, her eyes meeting Gold's immediately. She sidles up, trying to mimic Emma's confident swagger, to be a little impressive and intimidating for a change, "So, you slipped, huh?"

He's smiling his Evil Gremlin smile, like he's in on a joke she's not part of. Usually, that smile makes her all weak-knees and fast heartbeat – truth be told, it's one of the many methods he employed to get her into his bed so damn fast – but today it just annoys her, "Indeed. The pavements are just treacherous this time of year."

"Because late June is known for its ice." She's come to stand right in front of his cell, leans against the desk, her face clearly set on Not Amused, "Seriously, what the fuck even _was_ that?"

"_That_ was a foolish boy sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."

"And a stupid man deciding that it's his job to beat some sense into him?" Belle raises an eyebrow, "George is harmless; you know that."

"_He_ certainly didn't seem think so." Gold's almost pouting, and Belle would be amused if she didn't feel like clobbering him with his own damn walking stick.

"You can't just go around beating people with your cane," she sighs, exasperated, as if he's a small child who can't understand that the stove is hot, "it's called assault and battery, and it's a crime."

"I'm aware, dear, don't worry."

"Good, then couldn't you have been aware _before_ I had to arrest you? I mean, it was fun and all, but now the whole town is talking _again_." Her papa wasn't going to be pleased. He hated Gold enough as it was, and hearing about this little incident wasn't going to go far in changing his mind.

"He insulted you, I was being _chivalrous_." He stresses the final word, and he's giving her a look: the deep, dark, intense, _I Could Destroy You, Dearie, If I Chose To_ look. The one that she should be terrified of, but that really just makes her want to jump him. Even when he's behind bars, for attempting to beat her high school sort-of boyfriend into unconsciousness in a public place.

There's something wrong with her.

"What did he say?" she sighs, feigns weariness.

He shrugs, but there's a gleam in his eyes. He knows her too well; knows he's got her, "He called you a grave-robbing slut."

She clamps down on the seething anger that inspires. Because her lover has already dealt with the attempted-murder side of things, and George has a pretty decent black eye, and a welt on his head, and a split lip. She's the police: she has to clean up the existing mess rather than make a new one.

"Even so," she grinds out, "Could you _try_ not to get arrested from now on? It's a little awkward, you know?"

"Or, _you_ could just try not arresting me?" he shrugs, "Just a suggestion, dear, since it was _your _honour I was defending."

He's leaning as close as possible, his hands wrapped into fists around the bars, and it's definitely not right that she's getting all hot and bothered by the sight. He just looks so wild and dangerous, caged up like that, all simmering fury and predatory menace.

She somehow stands and crosses the space between them without even realising it. "You didn't need to do that," she means to sound stern, but she's not sure if she manages it, "I can deal with George Gastbury on my own."

"I shouldn't have to deal with public abuse from a petulant _child_." He hisses, his face pressed between the bars, inches from hers. She's not sure when this became a turn-on for her, but she's suddenly imagining a whole different use for her handcuffs.

"And George should be able to express how he feels without being thumped with a big stick… Even if he _does_ deserve it." She allows, with a small smile, and he's grinning at her now, all teeth and victory and pride.

"There's my girl," he almost purrs, and she can feel his breath on her face, her hands coming up to cover his on the bars.

She squeaks in surprise when he kisses her, hard and rough, teeth and five o'clock shadow, his tongue invading her mouth and numbing every brain cell in her head. She moans, presses herself against the bars as hard as she can, tries to get as much contact with him as possible.

She loves to run her hands through his hair, especially when they kiss. She holds his head in place, the strands soft and silky between her fingers as his hands roam downwards. He cups her waist, one hand moves round to squeeze her ass; she moans, and gives in to the fact that he can turn her on in any given situation.

Even from behind bars.

She has to give him a certain amount of credit for that.

Then there's a loud 'click', and she breaks away to find him smiling at her, all smug and proud of himself.

The door swings open: he's stolen her key.

She's glad the bars are out of the way, because it makes it easier to smack him, hard. A little police brutality is exactly what's called for here.

"Now, now dear." he chides, smirking, and oh, he has no right to be _sexy_ when he's being such a bastard, "You allowed yourself to be distracted, remember? This is your fault."

For all of two seconds, she allows him to get to her, and understands why Regina hates him so much if this is what he's like with her all the time. He can be _such_ a complete and utter asshole sometimes…

Then she remembers something he himself taught her, something incredibly important: she's more than a match for him.

"You're right," she slides closer to him, a wide and inviting smile on her lips, and he's just so _gullible_ when she's flirting. She moves up, close to his face again, and breathes her words against his lips, "And this is yours."

She fastens one handcuff around his wrist, and the other around the bars of the cell.

Then she moves back, and has to giggle at the consternation on his face. He tugs a little, as if pure disbelief will break through metal, and she's trying so hard not to burst into gales of laughter.

"There." She chokes out, "Now you can stay put."

But she hasn't moved backward, and there's this look in his eyes that's reserved for their bedroom and the dead of night, and she's breathing way too fast.

"Indeed." And there's his husky voice, his I'm About To Fuck You voice.

There's something quite attractive about this whole situation. She literally has him at her mercy: she could just leave him here, chained to his cell, and go get herself an ice cream cone.

Which would be fine, if it weren't for the ache between her legs, and the liquid pooling in her underwear.

So instead, she leans up on tiptoes, and kisses him, light and tender. She feels him trying to deepen it, trying to take control, and she's not having any of that.

She moves her mouth away from his, and feels him gulp as she nibbles on the side of his jaw, as she moves downward and runs her tongue over every sensitive spot he has. She sucks hard on his pulse-point, hard enough to leave a bruise; she bites lightly on his ear, and he gasps.

"Now," she whispered, light and breathy, "This I can work with."

He moves his free hand around to grab her ass again, and she slides a hand downward, to squeeze his cock through his trousers. He's already hard, throbbing in her hand, and she feels validated by the fact that she's not the only one turned on by this.

He groans when she rubs her palm against him; thrusts his hips forward to gain more friction. And then moans in protest when she moves her hand up and away, and smiles at him, all sweetness and innocent sunshine, as if she's not hell-bent on driving him utterly insane.

She fiddles with his belt, impressed with herself when she gets it undone without having to look. Her eyes are on his the whole time, his pupils wide and dilated. She slides her hand inside, and moves her hand over his hot, hard cock, watches his eyes squeeze shut. His head hits the bars, and she can't hide her smirk.

She's never had him so completely at her mercy. It's more than a little bit of a thrill.

She pumps him hard, runs her hand up and down until he's panting, his hips bucking hard, fucking her hand. She has an idea, and moves her hand down to cup and squeeze his balls.

"Christ, Belle!" his eyes fly open and meet hers, wide and dark, and she wonders for a moment if she's taken a wrong turn.

She gives another experimental squeeze, and his eyes close again, his hips bucking harder. She grins, victorious, and brings her mouth back to his ear, murmurs, "That good?"

He nods, wordlessly, and she's feeling cruel. He's a prisoner, after all, and he broke the law. It's almost her _duty_ to give him a hard time.

She snickers at her own double-entendre, and says, "I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

"That's… yeah, that's good."

"How about this?" she moves her hand back up, sweeps her thumb through the moisture at the tip, and he almost _whimpers_ into her ear. The sound, so helpless and _desperate_, sends a bolt of electricity through her, straight to her centre. She rubs her legs together, trying to alleviate some of the tension there.

"Uh, yeah," he says, around grit teeth, his voice lower than she's ever heard it, "That's… that's great, yeah…"

Torturing him is far too much fun.

She pulls her hand out, and sucks the liquid from her thumb. He watches her, stunned, and she giggles.

His hand – his free hand, his left one – is trying to work out the fly of her pants: and failing, spectacularly. She smirks at his efforts, bites her lip, stands back, and takes all of three seconds to shimmy out of her jeans. Then she raises and eyebrow, and says, "You could have just asked."

"I don't ask, dear, I _receive_." He growls, and while she won't deny the shiver that runs across her skin, that's not what he's supposed to say.

"Now," she points a warning finger at him, and it's hard to be fierce when she's standing in a cell in just her sneakers, knickers and a t-shirt, but she does her best, "None of that. I could just leave, you know, and let Emma find you all tied up and hard, with your ass-tattoo on full display. You'd never hear the end of it."

His eyes widen for a second, in something akin to fear, and then he nods, "I apologise, Deputy Sheriff French. That was rude of me."

Her full title has never sounded so hot.

"Indeed." She steals his word, and enjoys the way it rolls of her tongue.

Then she kisses him, grips the side of his head with both hands and slides her tongue inside as far as it can go, tasting every inch of his mouth, not allowing him any room to respond.

But he's quick, and she learns yet again not to underestimate him, and he grabs her hip with his free hand and pulls her between him and the bars. He hooks his clever fingers inside, and pulls his trousers down as far as he can, somehow taking her knickers with them.

It's impressive: afterwards, she resolves to ask how he managed that.

"Now," she breathes into his ear, aching from the feeling of his cock pressing against her entrance but needing to hear him say it, "Ask."

"Please," he bares his teeth in a smile, and how the man can look dangerous even now is beyond her but he manages it, and the little thrill of fear turns to lust about halfway down her spine, "May I fuck you to within an inch of your life?"

"Yes…" she means to sound coy, or in control, or really _anything_ other than the breathy moan it comes out as.

He thrusts up inside her, hard, and she cries out. She wraps her legs around his waist, putting her weight on the bars, knowing he's leaning on them for balance.

She rocks against him, and he starts to move in hard, fast strokes, no room to be subtle or slow. This isn't supposed to be sweet, tender lovemaking: this is a hard, harsh fuck in a jail cell, and it's completely perfect. She breathes her moans and quiet cries into his shoulder, as his hand moves from her hip to the bars beside her head.

She's pinned between Gold and the prison bars, his cock pounding into her, her head reeling, and how the _fuck_ did she even end up here? What filthy-minded deity did she impress?

That's the last coherent thought she has before he shifts his weight slightly, and the angle changes, and suddenly there's friction against her clit and she's burning up, the sensation more than she can bear.

"Please," he pants into her ear, after a few moments of nothing but mewling cries and desperate groans, the sound of skin sliding against sweat-slick skin, and the sound of his voice vibrates through her and sends her reeling higher, "Come for me, Belle."

And she does. Because he said _please_, and groaned her name, and she can't hold back any longer: she explodes around him, her whole body set on fire, and she can't feel anything but the pleasure bursting from where they're joined up through her body, rushing through every nerve ending, clenching her fingers and ripping a scream from her throat.

She's read that some call this 'le petite morte', but if she's dying, it's the _best_ way to go.

She clings to him, clutching his shoulders as she rides out her monster orgasm, and he follows soon after. His thrusts become short and erratic as he comes inside her, groaning long and deep into the side of her neck.

They stand for a moment, pressed against those bars, before she unhooks her legs from his hips and drops to the floor, letting him slide out of her. "Woah."

He reaches up and moves a strand of sweat-slick hair from her eyes. He's smiling, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, his warm smile. His I Love You smile. The only one he has that doesn't mean anything, other than that she's the only thing in the whole Universe that means anything at all.

She glows under that smile.

"Well, that was intense." He murmurs, and she's beaming at him, unable to stop.

"Yeah." She moves aside, not wanting to leave the warmth of his arms but feeling a desperate need to put her jeans back on before someone catches them. She even helps him to get his trousers and pants back up, despite how funny watching him redress with just his left hand was.

Then she slides around the cell door, turns the key in the lock, and places it on the desk, far from his reach.

He's watching her, still, and dumbstruck really is an adorable look for him. She can't resist walking back up to his bars, and pressing her face between them to kiss him on the lips, "But you're still under arrest, _dearie_."


End file.
